


mirror image

by simplyclockwork



Series: oh captain, my captain [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Captain John Watson, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingering, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, Mirror Sex, PWP, Smut, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25902841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Captain John Watson enjoys the beauty of a mirror.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: oh captain, my captain [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740022
Comments: 34
Kudos: 189
Collections: Supernova Smut from Various Fandoms





	mirror image

**Author's Note:**

> Another installment of the _oh captain, my captain_ series

Sound filters through the haze of sleep before his brain is fully alert. Opening his eyes slowly, John blinks and turns his head, finding the bed empty, the sheets rumpled but still warm on the other side. He skates a hand over the high thread count fabric and smirks, his mind spoiling him with memories of Sherlock in the alley, panting and begging for John to let him cum. 

Pushing his arms over his head and curving his spine, John stretches kinks out of his back, listening to the shower running in the bathroom through the open door. He feels warm and languid, his muscles coiled and humming with energy. It makes him restless, reminding him it has been days since he took his morning run in the park. Fortunately for him, Sherlock has provided a stunningly enjoyable alternative, their ‘partnered workouts’ proving to be far more invigorating than John’s usual pushups, situps, and jog routine. 

The direction of his thoughts draws his attention to another part of him that is also waking. Eyes half-open, John slides a hand down his hard stomach, over his navel and lower. He lets his legs part, knees falling to the sides as he touches between his thighs. He traces the shape of his cock as it twitches with interest, already half-hard and growing the closer he gets to wakefulness. When he takes himself in hand with a long, languid stroke, John groans, long and low, letting the noise fade into the early-morning air. 

With the shower still running, John closes his eyes and coaxes his body until he is fully erect, cock curving up, thick and demanding, from where his fist wraps around the base. He sighs and smoothes his thumb over the head, feeling along the glans, to the coronal ridge, shivering with the delicate sensation. It makes his hips push up and precum drip from the slit, John using it to slick his strokes just a little, the mix of friction and the hint of lubrication making his skin buzz. 

He tightens his grip just slightly, thrusting slowly into his fist with sleek rolls of his hips. His breathing quickens, a flush working up his chest and into his face. The sheets are kicked away in favour of feeling the cold bedroom air on his skin, a delicious contrast to his hot body, his tight, pumping hand. 

The sound of the shower stops, and John pants out a breathy sigh. Eyes closed, he listens to the shower curtain being pushed back, to Sherlock humming something quiet as steam drifts through the open door, changing the bedroom atmosphere into something humid and tantalizing. 

His eyes flashing open, John palms his bollocks, strokes himself root to tip and breathes out a long, low moan. The humming in the other room stops, pausing for several seconds before recommencing, accompanied by the sounds of Sherlock brushing his teeth. 

John pictures him in his head. In his mind’s eye, Sherlock is naked, his skin slick and glistening with water droplets clinging to his body. In John’s imagination, Sherlock bends over the sink to look into the mirror as he brushes his teeth. His eyes dart to the reflective surface to see John behind him, and he smirks, pushing the toothbrush toward the back of his throat. Sherlock’s expression and gestures make it painfully clear what the toothbrush is meant to signify, and John moans again, hips bucking up into the tight grip of his curled fingers. 

His heart racing, body electric with arousal and desire, John abandons his solo endeavour and slips out of bed. Moving across the room on deadly-silent feet, he passes into the bathroom and stops behind Sherlock, catching his eye where he stands before the mirror. 

Reality is even better than fantasy, Sherlock looking back at him with toothpaste foam on his lip. Holding John’s gaze, Sherlock wipes the smear away with his fingertips, making a mess of it and reminding John of what else could be spread over his lips. He is almost precisely as John imagined, nude and glistening from the shower, smelling of something sharp and spicy.

“Goodmorning, Captain.” Sherlock’s voice is a purr, the rough, lusty hum of it sending goosebumps rippling over John’s skin. 

John steps closer, his eyes locked with Sherlock’s. “Private,” he replies, nodding as he brushes an appreciative hand over Sherlock’s bare hip, down to the small of his back and over the prominent rise of his buttock. “I trust you slept well and are fighting-fit?” His tone is playful.

Shivering in response to John’s caress, Sherlock tilts his head slightly to the side, his eyelashes fluttering in a relaxed blink. The muscles in his thighs and back quiver as John’s fingers move over his skin, tracing up toward his tailbone and higher. “Yessir,” he breathes, lips parting when John rubs his thumb up the hard ridge of Sherlock’s vertebra, moving toward his neck. 

John grips his nape and leans forward, his naked front melding over Sherlock’s spine and curves. “Good,” he replies, tilting his head to drag his teeth along damp skin. “That’s very good, Private, because I plan to work you hard today.” 

Sherlock shivers again, the gesture delicate and making his breath catch. His hand curled around Sherlock’s long, graceful throat, John feels the movement beneath his palm, and he smiles a slow, hungry wolf’s smile.

“Did you have something specific in mind, Captain?”

Gliding his other hand back down Sherlock’s body, John parts his cheeks with his fingers. “I might,” he whispers, tugging at Sherlock’s earlobe with his teeth and making him groan pathetically, deep in Sherlock’s throat. “Did you get nice and clean for me?” His fingers slip lower, thumb pushing between Sherlock’s cheeks. John doesn’t find the tight, puckered ring of muscle he expects. Instead, he encounters flesh that is softened and stretched, the tension turned loose by the warm shower and Sherlock’s fingers. He huffs a needy growl into Sherlock’s ear, working his teeth against the side of his throat.

“I see you did a little more than wash-up,” John coos, testing the stretch with a slow, seeking finger. Sherlock groans in response, pressing his hips back, impaling himself on John’s hand. John grins against his neck and crooks his finger, making Sherlock shiver and jerk. “I see you had plans of your own.” His voice sinks into a deeper register, rumbling in his chest, a borderline snarl that draws a stuttering whine from Sherlock’s lips. “I assume they involve my participation?” He adds a second finger. The sound Sherlock makes is wanton and sinful, edging toward completely desperate.

“Yes, Captain,” Sherlock gasps, pressing back again, his voice turning high and needy. “Requires it, in fact.” John steps forward and pushes him against the edge of the vanity counter. The movement lets John pin Sherlock in place with his legs on either side of Sherlock’s thighs, his pelvis pushing into Sherlock’s plush arse. 

John’s reply is smug, murmuring a husky, “I think I can accommodate your request. The question is,” his arm moves as he begins to slip his fingers in and out of Sherlock’s loose hole, coaxing little huffs and shivering sighs with each penetrating thrust, “should I?” 

A low, aching sound escapes Sherlock’s parted lips, drifting from his extended throat as he tilts his head back, John’s hand still curved around the front of his neck. “Please,” he exhales, the plea rough and broken, the rhythm of his breathing speeding up to match the quickened pace of John’s fingers. “Oh, _please.”_

“Oh, Sherlock.” Shaking his head in false disappointment, John slips his fingers from Sherlock’s body, letting him whine in frustration before adding a third finger and penetrating him again in a slow, gradual slide. Sherlock’s toes curl against the tiled floor, and his body quakes to the tune of his uneven gasp. “Is that how you address a superior officer?” John asks, biting hard against Sherlock’s shoulder and working his tongue over the rising mark. 

“S-sorry, Sir,” Sherlock manages. Still trapped between John’s statuesque thighs and the counter, he wiggles his hips in a needy little shimmy, trying to press back into John’s thrusting fingers. “Yes, please, _Captain Watson_.”

“Good lad.” John rewards him with a firmer thrust and a little twisting motion that makes Sherlock keen. The sound is loud, echoing in the bathroom, and John moves his hand from Sherlock’s throat to his mouth. He means to muffle Sherlock’s continued noises, but Sherlock’s lips are parted and wet, and John can’t resist slipping two blunt fingers inside. Sherlock groans around the intrusion, head tilting back onto John’s shoulder as John matches his thrusts into Sherlock’s stretched hole with his fingers in Sherlock’s welcoming mouth. 

“Yeah?” John murmurs, mouthing over Sherlock’s exposed throat, his lips curving in a smug grin. “You like that? You like it when I fill all your holes with my fingers?” The phrase is filthy, and Sherlock trembles in wordless response, whimpering. He wraps his tongue around John’s fingers, curling over the tips and suckling, lathing over the knuckles. John groans, eyelashes fluttering as his cock twitches, arousal surging through him. His erection, pinned between his stomach and Sherlock’s arse cheek, leaks liberally onto Sherlock’s skin, so hard John feels he might erupt without even being touched. 

Sherlock is oblivious, his eyes closed with spit running down his chin, sucking eagerly on John’s fingers like its life or death not to. He barely reacts when John slips his fingers out of his clenching hole and backs up enough to line up his cock. With a hard, targeted push, John drives into him, long and deep, and Sherlock’s eyes fly open. John’s fingers muffle his cry, the sound a garbled, sharp, “John!”

Lifting his head, John looks at their reflections in the mirror, and his breath catches. _“Fuck_ me,” he whispers, his voice harsh with lust and wonder. “Look at you.” He grips Sherlock’s chin, tilting his head toward the mirror. Sherlock stares back at himself with dark eyes, lids heavy and half-mast, his lips pink and stretched around John’s fingers. “You’re fucking perfect, you know that? And you’re so goddamn tight.” John groans, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he slowly thrusts into Sherlock’s body, enjoying the gripping feeling. “Even open and ready for me, you’re still _so_ _fucking tight.”_ Holding Sherlock by the chin, John strokes his fingers over Sherlock’s jaw, his other hand still half-buried in Sherlock’s mouth. “You like it when I fuck you like this, baby? When I fuck you like a needy little cocktease?”

Sherlock is staring at him with shadowed eyes, his face flushed, shining both with sweat and his shower. He nods, curling his tongue around John’s fingers and whining, hips rocking restlessly against the vanity counter’s edge. His cock leaks onto the tile, the clear drip of his arousal dribbling down the cupboard, onto the floor. John’s pupils dilate at the sight of him, and his thrusts quicken. Sherlock shakes with each push, making John slip his fingers from his mouth and push his shoulders, bending Sherlock over the sink.

“Bend over for me, yeah, that’s it. Good lad, that’s it,” he murmurs, stroking his palm reverently over Sherlock’s back. “Put your hands on the counter. Yeah, baby, that’s perfect.” The new position brings Sherlock’s head lower, tilting his body downward, letting John thrust into him at a different angle that has Sherlock writhing and gasping against the counter. “Oh, you’re so bloody gorgeous with my cock inside you.” Sherlock sighs out a loud whine in response.

Grinning, John leans forward, curling over Sherlock’s bent spine, and locks his fingers through Sherlock’s. He pins him in place, their hips flush, pushing his cock deep into Sherlock’s body. It makes Sherlock cry out again, the sound desperate, filthy and no longer muffled. 

_“John,”_ he groans, gasping when John ruts his hips, rocking slowly, never entirely leaving Sherlock’s body. Each forward tilt drags the head of his cock over Sherlock’s prostate, and Sherlock mewls and shivers with each glide. He breathes John’s name again, the rest of his words devolving into nonsense, his voice climbing every time John pushes deeper.

Holding Sherlock’s hands against the counter, John fucks him with lazy thrusts, keeping his rhythm deliberately, infuriatingly paced. It makes Sherlock whimper, John watching his face twist and contort in the mirror. 

“Yes, baby, that’s it.” John nuzzles into the dip between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, dragging his teeth over the skin and pressing kisses over the trail of goosebumps that rise beneath his mouth. “Take my cock, Private. Ah, yes, _yes_ , you feel _so good._ ” John moans and bites hard, Sherlock crying out beneath him. Sherlock’s cock sputters a long, glistening trail of precum onto the counter, his body tensing and relaxing as he nears but doesn’t quite find his climax. Sherlock whines, the sound drawn out into something long and needy, almost angry in his frustration.

“John,” he repeats, rolling his head to the side and pressing his mouth to John’s jaw. _“John.”_

Understanding, John smirks and turns to nip Sherlock’s cheek, using his teeth to draw Sherlock’s pouting bottom lip into his mouth. “You wanna cum? Is that what you want?” He sucks hard on the flesh in his mouth, making Sherlock grunt quietly. “Tell me what you want.”

Sherlock’s lip is red and swollen when John releases it, his eyes dark slits in his flushed face. “Harder,” he bites out, clenching his teeth as John rubs against his prostate again. The tendons stand out in his neck, and he growls, “Fuck me _harder.”_

“Whatever you want, baby,” John vows. Taking Sherlock’s hands in one of his, he pulls his arms behind his back, holding them in place with one hand. His shoulders extended, rounded and tense, Sherlock braces himself with his chin on the counter. With his free hand gripping Sherlock’s hip, John tugs him back, spreading his legs apart with a kick. 

With his arse in the air and his cheek against the counter tile, Sherlock is the image of submissive. The only thing that could be better is seeing him on his knees, but John is content with their current position, and he expresses his appreciation by jerking his hips back and slamming forward with a grunt. The thrust pushes Sherlock back against the vanity’s edge, and a low, startled shout escapes him. It devolves into whimpers of pleasure when John repeats the action, building into a steady, almost punishingly hard pace.

Sherlock’s breathing merges into loud panting. Each exhale is punctuated with a broken little _oh_ that drives John wild. The exclamations are intoxicating, Sherlock’s ordinarily deep voice rising several octaves with his pleasure. To the hoarse chorus of _oh, oh, oh,_ he thrusts firmly and with wild need into Sherlock’s pliant body. 

“Come on, Sherlock.” Digging his fingers into Sherlock’s hips, releasing his hands, John rams forward, driving Sherlock hard against the counter. “Cum for me, baby, let me see you, you gorgeous fucking work of art.” Hands scrabbling for purchase, Sherlock makes a sound almost like a ragged sob. Watching his expression in the mirror, John sees his eyes roll back, his lips parting around a loud, exuberant shout before Sherlock tightens around him and cums. His release spatters the counter, the mirror, slides down the cabinets, and the floor, both John’s thrusts and Sherlock’s shudders rocking his body.

The sight is breathtaking, Sherlock biting hard on his lip as his cock stutters and shoots one final dribble of semen, his muscles clenching and milking John’s cock until he is cursing and biting hard into Sherlock’s shoulder, helpless as waves of pleasure course through him.

“Fuck, yes, fuck, Sherlock,” he snarls, nails digging into Sherlock’s hips, threatening to break the skin. “Fuck, _fuck!”_ When John climaxes, it falls upon him like a ton of bricks. It rips his breath away, his gasps ragged and unsteady, one final thrust bringing him deep as his cock pulses and floods Sherlock with his cum. 

“John, John, John.” Sherlock chanting his name in a shattered, raw voice makes John snarl, makes him claw at his back and pump through his release, Sherlock’s rippling aftershocks draining every last drop of his orgasm. 

Finally spent, John slumps over Sherlock’s back. His head swims, eyes closed, and his limbs slack, both of them breathing loudly in the steamy air. “Holy fuck,” John murmurs, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Sherlock’s neck. “You’re fucking amazing.” 

Sherlock’s response is a vague moan, followed by a pleased little sigh. Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist, John holds him close and tries to hold onto the moment’s intimacy as he catches his breath.


End file.
